I’ve slept through gunfire. I’ve slept on frozen ground. I’ve slept in rooms that still smelled like smoke when morning came.
This is harder.
Because I want her.
Because wanting something and keeping my hands off it is its own kind of pain.
Because she trusted me enough to let me into her bed, and I’m not about to be another man who takes.
Morning light slips across her face. Freckles. A faint line between her brows that doesn’t smooth out even in sleep. Red hair spilled over the pillow like somebody painted it there.
She looks younger asleep.
Maybe because she is fifteen years younger than me.
Maybe because fear makes people look small.
Her blanket shifts, and her knee drifts closer. Just a sleepy little movement, looking for warmth.
My whole body locks.
Heat slams through me, sharp and immediate, and I hate myself for it.
She’s asleep. She’s fragile. She’s here because I promised she’d be safe.
I don’t touch her.
I don’t move.
My cock gets hard anyway.
A blunt reminder that I’m still a man, still capable of wanting. I haven’t wanted in years. Haven’t let myself.
After my ex, wanting felt like a bad joke.
Now there’s a woman in bed with me. A woman who looked at me like I mattered in the worst room on earth.
My hand knots in the blanket until my knuckles ache.
I hate how much I want to pull her against me.
A knock hits the door.
Hard.
Ruby jerks awake with a sharp inhale, eyes flying open, wild with panic. She scrambles upright like she expects hands on her.
“Easy,” I say at once, low and steady. “Ruby. It’s me.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, pupils blown wide. She clutches the blanket to her chest.
The knock comes again, faster this time.
My hand is on my gun before the sound finishes.
I slide off the bed and move for the door without a sound, putting my body between Ruby and whatever’s outside. I look through the window.
Ace.
